


does your husband know (the sunshine gleams from your wedding band)

by peachyteabuck



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Cheating, F/F, the heterosexual cannot please his wife (shocker)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:54:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24516493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachyteabuck/pseuds/peachyteabuck
Summary: weddings are supposed to be the happiest day of your life, but whether that joy comes from the joining of husband and wife is up for debate.
Relationships: Villanelle | Oksana Astankova/You
Kudos: 27





	does your husband know (the sunshine gleams from your wedding band)

**Author's Note:**

> first killing eve related fic!! pls lmk what u think, i really wanna write more for eve & villanelle soon!

The dress is tight, almost too tight, against your ribs. That isn’t to say the perfectly cut white lace isn’t beautiful, doesn’t hit at all the right places, doesn’t make you look like a goddess on Earth. The bouquet meets a similar level of immaculate – same with your shoes, the makeup, the hair, the venue. Even your husband-to-be, a man you’ve known for over a decade, is impeccable; square jaw, light dusting of a beard, smooth skin. Your mom loves him, too.

None of that is the problem; not a single one of _those_ things is taking your breath away and making your skin feel like its on fire. That last one, especially, _certainly_ isn’t making your knees weak and pressing you up against the wall of a supply closet in the church your future mother-in-law chose while sliding a pants-suit clad knee under the loose skirt to press against the fancy lingerie you had bought special.

“How long as it been?” the woman asks, Russian accent coating her words like a caramel drizzle on a pecan pie. “How long has it been since that man out there made you feel like this?”

You swallow as she gets down just as the person in question did the day he asked you to marry you, though he didn’t shove his face against the red lace that was uncomfortable but was pulled high to frame your hips.

“Too long,” is all you can get out as she presses a small kiss where the fabric meets the most sensitive part of you. You throw your head back against the cement wall, moaning as a single deft finger pushes the fabric aside. The other hand moves to your hip to steady you, skin gripped between her fingers so hard you think you’ll hear your bones crack before you’d finished.

Maybe the pain wouldn’t be that bad, though, considering how nothing feels real and everything except for the feeling of this woman’s tongue on your cunt ceases to exist. You weren’t lying – the last time you’d sat on someone’s face was when you unicorn hunted for his birthday and found some cute little thing from Tinder who agreed to dinner and a threesome and with all the man’s self-important bullshit. You can’t tell if the woman below you was really that good or if time had made you sensitive, but either way she easily slips two fingers before crooking them expertly.

It was quick but precise, something akin to how you took the man’s cock in your hands and mouth every time he came home a little _too_ stressed and would delay your sleep with his complaining. That, though, was cold and heartless, a utilitarian act done to subdue.

What’s happening here is…something so beautifully gifted upon you. It’s a spine-tingling spark that reminds eating a dessert from that expensive pastry he hates; a pleasure basked in not only for its ability to make you moan but also for its capacity to piss _him_ off.

You cum with three of her fingers buried inside of you, her tongue on the crest of your center, and your hands tugging at the collar of her muted pink stress shirt (she had stopped you when you went to tangle them in her hair – insisting she had spent hours on it that morning and would _not_ have it messed with). It takes a long while for your breathing to return to normal, for your heart to stop beating so hard you were convinced it was going to burst. As soon as you could see more than a few inches in front of you the woman was turning out the door, grabbing the handle that took a special twist of the wrist to open.

“Wait,” you pant, collecting your bearings and wiping sweaty hair from your forehead carefully, desperate not to smudge the make up you had spent so much money paying someone to apply. She turned, raising a single eyebrow and looking you up and down. “Who are you?”

The woman, face glistening and smirk proud, just lets out a small laugh. “Consider me a good friend.”

You don’t push her to give anything further, swallowing what little spit you had left as you went in search of your wedding party. Judging by the old clock on the poorly painted wall, the ceremony was supposed to start ten minutes ago. Normally you were someone who insisted on starting everything on time, but for whatever reason, that specific anxiety had dissipated. For the first time in a long time you felt…satiated. You felt _good_. And for that, you had to thank her.


End file.
